


From the Abyss

by QueenSinnamon



Category: VIXX
Genre: Fantasy, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 08:46:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16594652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenSinnamon/pseuds/QueenSinnamon
Summary: The Creator --That’s what he had taken to calling it, the force in the dark. He knows nothing, not what he is or where he came from, but The Creator does, shaping him into what they must picture him to be.For the first time since he became conscious, he hears The Creator. “You’re coming along really well, you know that?” The Creator says, their deep voice all around him, filling the darkness as they hum thoughtfully, and for the first time, he feels...something, something nice, deep in the perpetual dark, fluttering.He doesn’t know, he doesn’t understand what The Creator means, but he believes it.





	From the Abyss

His earliest memory is feeling--Something pushing and pulling, pressing and stretching parts of him. Which parts, exactly, he doesn’t know.

There is only darkness, and that darkness is all of him, his entire being, while an unseen force does what it pleases with him.

It doesn’t hurt. He doesn’t know how he knows what “hurt” means, but he’s certain the touches don’t. It’s gentle, but firm, carefully molding him into a shape he doesn’t see.

He hopes someday he does.

* * *

He doesn’t know how long he doesn’t see, only feel, before The Creator gives him hearing.

 _The Creator_ \--That’s what he had taken to calling it, the force in the dark. He knows nothing, not what he is or where he came from, but The Creator does, shaping him into what they must picture him to be.

For the first time since he became conscious, he hears The Creator. “You’re coming along really well, you know that?” The Creator says, their deep voice all around him, filling the darkness as they hum thoughtfully, and for the first time, he feels...something, something nice, deep in the perpetual dark, fluttering.

He doesn’t know, he doesn’t understand what The Creator means, but he believes it.

He feels The Creator moving around him, inside him, everywhere. The Creator works for a long time, he doesn’t know how long, but he basks in it, feeling their will on him, bending parts of him with a solid grip, smoothing others with soft caresses.

The darkness feels smaller now, somehow. It’s no longer an endless territory, no longer encompassing his entirety. There is an end to it now, a finite space, and inside it, at its very center, is him, unable to move but definitely present.

The Creator touches him, some part of him, very close to his mind, and says, “We’re good. That’s it for today.” He hears The Creator breathe deeply, a pattering sound, loud at first and then becoming far away, a thud, and then The Creator is gone.

He doesn’t feel their presence anymore, but the worry he used to feel when The Creator presses at him long and lightly doesn’t come. He knows what it is now; a temporary goodbye.

The Creator will be back. The Creator always comes back to continue his work, to complete him.

He is coming along very well.

* * *

There is no rest for him, only time without The Creator (“rest” he had heard them say a few times) and time with The Creator, feeling their touch and listening to their voice hum (a song, he learns, different songs every time) and tell him what they’re doing.

“Your arms and legs are ready now,” they say. He doesn’t understand what “legs” or “arms” are, but he feels something grow in his center, warm and pleasant like how The Creator feels on him.

He feels the edges of his being extend, as if some parts of the darkness suddenly had more space, long instead of wide, and then those spaces extended too, pinpricks of space at the tip of his existence.

“I thought I made your hands and feet too small,” he says. Are those the extensions he felt just now? “But they suit you just fine. It’s actually pretty cute.”

 _Cute._ A new word. He thinks it means something good, if The Creator’s pleased tone meant anything. It gives him that feeling again, the fluttering deep inside him.

“I’m really happy with you so far,” The Creator says, and he connects the word--”happy”--with how he feels, the fluttering inside his center. He’s happy. His form is following The Creator’s design, and The Creator is happy with him. “Just have to carve the details now.”

A new word again. He learns something new everyday, something The Creator says. Sometimes he understands. Other times, he doesn’t, but it’s okay because The Creator knows all, and maybe eventually, he will too.

 _Carve_ , he repeats the sound in his mind and feels a sense of confidence. He thinks he can say it too, when The Creator decides to give him a voice.

And then he feels something on him. It’s nothing like he’s ever felt before, not at all like The Creator’s touch, soft and gentle. It’s hard and sharp, scratching at his surface. It feels… he doesn’t know what to call it, just that he doesn’t like it.

The scratching soon turns into scraping, shredding parts of him off and away. He can actually feel bits of the dark space around him, his space, fall away.

He doesn’t understand. He thought The Creator wanted to complete him, so why was he cutting away parts of him?

He wants to cry out. He wants to ask The Creator to stop. He doesn’t like. He’s not happy.

He hates it.

He’s not sure how he knows what hate means, but he knows it’s this, how he feels about this sharp thing.

It hurts. That’s it. It hurts.

He wants The Creator’s touch back. He wants their softness on him again, smooth and soothing. He doesn’t want this scraping thing. He doesn’t want hurt.

 _Stop, Creator. Please, please, please._ But his cries have no sound.

The Creator hasn’t given him a voice yet. He has only touch and hearing, feeling something hot and wet trickling down his surface.

The scraping stops, and the sharp thing disappears.

“W-wet?” they say, and he feels it, finally, The Creator’s gentle touch, near his mind, and he feels something in him, big and overwhelming, ballooning in his center. Relief, he knows. “Why is your face wet? It should have dried days ago-- Where is this…”

The Creator’s touch goes up higher, just a little, and the thing inside him bursts, and more of the hot water pour over him. The Creator draws a quick breath, and something clangs loudly down below. “T-tears? H-how-- Are you alive? You’re crying?”

Tears. That’s what the hot water is. He’s crying. It doesn’t hurt anymore, but he can’t stop. It keeps flowing down his face ( _face_ \--So that’s what it’s called), and The Creator sputters. “No, please, don’t cry-- I… Was I hurting you? I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-- I was just--”

The Creator breathes, fast and hard. They’re...awed.

They hadn’t known about him all along. They were only making him for the sake of creating.

On the one hand, it makes him feel a little like crying again, but at the same time, he’s amazed as well. His Creator works so hard for someone they didn’t even know has been there in the first place. Had they known, he has no doubt they would have been more cautious, more gentle with him.

“Oh my gods, oh my gods--How? Who even-- Why?” The Creator’s touch is on him again, on his face, warm and soft. He can feel The Creator’s strength behind the touch, but also his gentleness, careful not to hurt him. “You’re alive! The gods gave you life! I can’t believe it-- I--”

Their hands disappear again, and he hears the sharp thing, its distinct sound, scratch somewhere nearby. “I have to finish you. I have to--” A touch, on one side of his face. So kind. “Would you let me finish you? Please? I have to, I can’t leave you like this, but...i-it will probably hurt, but I’ll try my best to be gentle. It’s just a little more. Please.”

He wants to say _Yes, of course, Creator. Anything you want._ But he can’t.

The Creator evidently realizes that because then he says, “Right. You can’t talk, but you can feel, right?” A pause, and they laugh, but it doesn’t exactly sound happy. It’s short and a little broken, like small, quick puffs of breath. “I don’t even know if you can hear me.”

They hum, and he understands that they’re thinking

The Creator sincerely considers how he feels--him, this silent being they have made without their knowing, that they have only realized is alive. Why should it matter? He can’t complain, even if he wanted to; He means nothing compared to The Creator’s great will; so why?

They are kind, the kindest. He doesn’t know if there is anyone else in this world apart from him and The Creator, but he knows they are the kindest. Only the kindest Creator would think of his Creations’ feelings. He knows it.

“If you can hear me,” The Creator finally speaks again, and he listens attentively, hanging on to their every word. “And if it hurts too much, cry and I’ll stop working for awhile. I’ll let you rest, then I’ll start working again when you’re not crying anymore. If you can’t hear me…” They sigh, and the next words sound so heavy, as if it pains him to even think of it. “I hope to the gods you’ll forgive me. I really hope you won’t hate me.”

 _Forgive._ Forgive? Does it mean to not hate?

He doesn’t think he would hate him. He doesn’t know if he can at all. The Creator has only ever given to him--Touch, hearing, time, life itself.

If anyone should hope to be forgiven, it should be him, he thinks. The Creator has given him so much, and yet--He wants a voice, to thank The Creator, to praise them for their work and their dedication to complete him. He wants sight, to gaze at The Creator, to see the joy in their face when he shows his gratitude. He wants movement, to be able to reach out and hold The Creator as well.

He wants more. So much more.

The scraping and the scratching--He understands what they are now. They’re not meant to hurt him; The Creator is only adding to him, achieving his final image, by taking away small parts of him. He’s not--What is the word for it? Yes, _afraid_ \-- He’s not afraid of them anymore, not now that he knows that The Creator knows that he exists, and they are taking great care in his making, even greater now than they have always had.

That is enough for him.

The Creator pulls him back from his own thoughts then with a simple, “I’m starting now, okay?”

He knows The Creator would not hear, but he thinks, _Yes, Creator_ , anyway as he prepares himself for the sharp thing to grate through his surface again.

It takes awhile, and he knows--he just _knows_ \--The Creator is... _hesitating_ , so reluctant to cause him any pain, and a different kind of feeling grows in his center. He recognizes it as happiness, and something else. He doesn’t know its name. Not yet. But it makes him want to cry out, long and loud, with nothing but praises and gratitude.

He will definitely ask The Creator what it is, later, once they have given him a voice, along with many other things.

For now, he makes do with listening to The Creator, feeling his soft touch on him, gently stroking a faraway part of him, a hint, before the sharp thing finally comes, cutting away parts of him and at the same time making him whole.

It doesn’t hurt as it did before, he realizes. He wonders if it’s because he’s not scared anymore or if it’s The Creator keeping his promise, to be as gentle as he can be. He decides it’s both.

The scratching almost feels pleasant. It sounds almost pleasant as well while he listens to nothing but The Creator’s quiet breaths and the faints _snick, snick_ of the sharp thing. He almost gets lost in thought again before The Creator says, “By the way… My name is Wonshik. Kim Wonshik.”

 _Kim Wonshik_ . It’s a pretty name, he thinks. It sounds like it would be easy to say, like it would flow smoothly with his voice, whatever it may sound like. _Wonshik_.

The Creator--No, Kim Wonshik continues speaking, “I’m an artist. That means, I make things. Different things, anything I can think of. They can be ugly, or beautiful.” A pause, and then-- “Like you.” They laugh, their deep voice suddenly high and shrill. They’re so delighted, and he’s not sure how to feel.

There is happiness but, more than that, he feels like curling in on himself, like making himself smaller and hiding away. It’s new and odd, and too much that it’s almost unwelcome. Almost.

Their laugh fades, and they sound more thoughtful when they speak again. “I sell what I make, so I can get more things to make more things. I don’t know if I’m making sense to you.” They laugh again, but it doesn’t sound as happy or delighted now. It’s lower, and a little...distant, and he feels like Kim Wonshik is saying one thing, and thinking of something else entirely, and then they’re more present again when they say, “But I don’t think it’ll be right to sell you. No amount of money will ever be enough, I think. The gods themselves brought you to life. They sent you to me, I think. You don’t sell blessings.”

What are they saying? He doesn’t understand Kim Wonshik. Who is ‘the gods’? He has never heard these gods. There has only ever been Kim Wonshik, for as long as he can remember. Kim Wonshik brought him to life.

And now he wants to hide away even more. They are his Creator. Why would they value their creation that much? Are there other Creators in the world? Do they all say this to their creations?

He recognizes that it makes him happy, but it just...doesn’t make sense to him, and a small part of him wants it to stop, wants Kim Wonshik to stop saying those things that make him feel like hiding.

 _Embarrassment._ The word comes to him on its own. That’s what he feels, the urge to be small and hide.

Kim Wonshik laughs again--They laugh a lot, he notices--and they too sound small. They’re embarrassed just as he is.

“I want to keep you here, with me.” Another short pause, in which he wants more than ever to just...disappear. Kim Wonshik is too much. “I mean, if you want to, of course. I would love it if you stayed with me, but you can go too, if you want. You should have that kind of choice, right?.”

 _Choice_. To do as he pleases? Is that what it means?

He doesn’t know what he wants to do. Not yet.

Staying with Kim Wonshik sounds like a good thing, but to go, somewhere, he doesn’t know where but he knows now that there are other places-- It sounds terrifying, but also he thinks he would like that too. He wants to do both. Is it possible to do both?

“I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” He only partly understands what Kim Wonshik means--to decide at a later time. He likes that. What is a bridge? That, he will have to ask later. He has so many questions to ask now; He’s not sure he can remember them all when he can finally ask. “For now, you should have a name--Yes, a name!”

He listens, full attention on Kim Wonshik as they hum in thought once again as if his life depends on it. Perhaps it does. To have a name, something uniquely his for Kim Wonshik to call him with, something he knows would be his and his alone--It sounds incredible.

“How about...Clay Man?” The _snick snick_ stops abruptly as Kim Wonshik bursts into laughter, loud and whole.

He doesn’t understand it, the name or the laughter.

 _Clay_ and _man_ are words he has heard before, from Kim Wonshik, distinctly when they had yelled, “Oh man, the clay got in my eye!”. It doesn’t sound incredible at all, and he feels no happines from it. Did he think too much of what names are?

“No, I’m joking, I’m joking, sorry.” Joking? They don’t mean it? Oh, thank the gods (whoever they are). “Seriously now, I think, for now, I’ll call you...Hongbin.”

 _Hongbin_ . It’s pleasant to hear. He thinks it would be pleasant to say as well. _Hong - bin_. It doesn’t sound at all like something Kim Wonshik would say if clay got in his eye again. At least, he hopes not. He likes it.

Kim Wonshik sighs, and he--Hongbin thinks they sound a little...sad. “If you want to change it later though, you can do that.”

His choice, again.

Hongbin appreciates it. He truly does.

He’s Kim Wonshik’s mere creation, and yet they consider his thoughts, his wants, in everything concerning him, even when it sounds like they would rather he do as they had first thought. That’s more than he can ever ask.

Kim Wonshik goes back to _snick snicking_ away at Hongbin’s surface, slowly but surely achieving the Hongbin they had planned out in the first place.

Hongbin is a good name, he thinks. _Kim Wonshik’s Hongbin_.


End file.
